


Denial

by Blue_Finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 05:03:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3637743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Finch/pseuds/Blue_Finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I started this last year as a bit of fluff, then it turned into hurt/comfort with a bit of added fluff.<br/>After the team reunited in their new subway lair, Harold kept John at arm's length. Finally at Shaw's insistence, John goes to Professor Whistler's apartment. It was time to stop being in denial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Denial

**Author's Note:**

> I had been working on this then got busy taking care of the fan site I write for. After the episode Skip, I was tempted to erase the whole thing. I told another author the only way right now to keep Rinch alive may only be in fan fiction. So I dusted this thing off finished it up. Hope you enjoy.  
> One thing to note there some parts that are explicit that may be a bit rough if you squick at love bites.
> 
> Thank you to managerie for beta reading and helping with the writing.

 

 

Their Captain had insisted, well actually ordered Detectives Riley and Fusco to take some leave. Lionel had jumped at the chance to take his son Lee to visit Lionel’s parents in Pennsylvania. “Call me if you guys need me,” Lionel had leaned in close to say before he slapped John on the back, “See you in a week partner.” They both left the precinct heading their separate ways.

John had nowhere to go–Riley’s apartment was just a place to sleep, not somewhere to actually live or spend days off. So, this was day four of John’s downtime where he came to their subway hideaway. Four days of inspecting and cleaning the armament Finch and Root had confiscated from the Latvian mob’s warehouse, cleaning his own stash of firearms, helping Finch secure and hide their HQ or just watching Harold.

Finch tried to hide it, but John could see the pain Harold was in physically and mentally. Reese didn’t know what or if Finch was taking any of the pain medications prescribed to Wren or the other aliases Samaritan had uncovered and Harold burned, if Whistler even had any of those drugs prescribed to him. In the days and hours John had been closely observing Harold; the man hadn’t so much as taken an ibuprofen. As to Harold’s mental anguish, it was written all over his face when he would find news of some Samaritan activity. John knew what Harold needed, what they both needed and it had been denied to them for six months now.

For the fourth day as Harold gathered up his things to go to Whistler’s third floor walk-up, John suggested they go together and for the fourth day Harold turned him down. It was too risky to be seen together in someplace less public than a diner full of people, a college campus or a police station. Detective Riley and Professor Whistler can’t be associated as anything more than casual acquaintances, Harold would warn. John again watched Finch limp out of their headquarters; Harold’s face was set in a determined mask while John’s own face was much easier to read: distress, yearning, & hesitation.

John had been so focused on Finch that he almost didn’t notice Shaw had walked up behind him. “How long are you two going to keep this up?” she demanded.

Reese attempted to smooth out his startle reflex and slowly turned his head to look blankly at Sameen. “Keep what up?”

Shaw rolled her eyes, “Don’t play coy, it doesn't suit you. How long are you and Finch going to play Little Miss Virginal School Marm and The Lusty Policeman? Don’t you think we haven’t noticed that you two haven’t been together since that clusterfuck in DC? Harold acts like the whole of Samaritan’s army of operatives is going to storm in here and kill us all if you so much as touch him. Now, you’re both wound tighter than a two dollar watch and you are going to get us all killed. Go! Break into his apartment if you have to. Don’t leave until you two screw each other’s brains out.” Shaw whistled for Bear and yelled over her shoulder as they both left, “I’m taking the dog and we better not see you or Harold for at least a day.

Shaw was right. He needed Harold; if not the intimacy, at least the freedom to touch and be touched. Even before they became lovers − when John could pat Harold on the shoulder, brush the shorter man’s arm with his as they walked side-by-side, or even gently connect his with the other man’s fingertips as they reached for the same pastry − touch kept him grounded. Then the sex with Harold that had fueled John’s raging desire and was now being denied him had intensified John’s recklessness. Sure that devil may care attitude got him promoted to homicide but it also made him careless. That was going to get them all killed. John was going to break Finch’s door down if he had to and he wasn’t going to leave until he at least made Harold understand that denial was just as dangerous as discovery.

Decision made, John picked up his coat and swirled it around himself like a cape. He was Don Juan tonight. No matter what happened, he was going to see his lover and at least hold him until morning.

***

Harold stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked up with a grimace. His back and hip were already screaming at him. The walk to one subway station and then from another to get to his building after a day of sitting non-stop at his desk for eight hours made his hip throb, his back seize with piercing jolts of pain to shoot downward with every step. Finch breathed in deep, clenched his jaws, and gritted his teeth. Determined, he started his ascent up the three flights of stairs.

When Harold reached the landing to the floor of his apartment his, hand cramped from gripping the railing so tightly as he climbed each agonizing step. Harold literally had to drag his right leg as he stumbled into his unit.

Closing the door behind him, he leaned against it. Harold shut his eyes and tried to breathe through the spasms. When he felt able to move again without collapsing to the floor, Finch unbuttoned his suit jacket. He removed both overcoat and jacket tossing them carelessly at his sofa. He staggered towards his bedroom. Harold’s intent was to take a hot shower, but instead he collapsed on his bed.  

Finch groaned as his back knotted painfully although lying down allowed the muscles he had overworked just to keep himself from falling flat on his face to finally relax. His lower back was screaming bloody murder, but all Harold could do was breathe through the pain. A single tear rolled down his cheek; he could stand the pain. He had to now, alone. Harold choked back a sob.

Before all this − before the subway and before Professor Whistler was created − Harold didn’t have these problems, not since all those months following his ‘accident’ years ago. Before being forced into this depressing bachelor low-rent living Harold had found a partner with magic hands − the long fingers that could trace every tendon and smooth out all the tension, hot palms that soothed tired aching muscles.

Only a few months into their working partnership John would recognize when Finch was having a ‘bad day’. On one of those ‘days’ and with only a token protest from Harold, they found their way to Reese’s loft where Harold sprawled face down on John’s bed. Straddling Harold’s hips and ass, John would isolate and maneuver each vertebra as much as possible until Harold was as limber and pain free as a man with bolts in his spine could ever hope to be.

It became routine; Finch in Reese’s loft with John working his magic. Harold at first would just fall asleep as the pain eased away, only soon and more times than not, those hands did more than soothe him and one night they both gave into desire. John became Harold’s lover, a panacea for the pain of his injuries and his loneliness.

But now? Harold couldn’t even make his way to the medicine cabinet to find the Flexural. Finch wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead and then the trail the tear had left with his shirtsleeve, before he clenched his jaw and covered his eyes with his forearm. He had to bear this alone. Harold believed the only way for John to stay safe was by keeping him away. Time seemed to stand still as the pain endlessly waxed and waned, one contraction so severe Harold convulsed from the agony.  A whimpering cry involuntarily escaped as he tried to breathe through it, “John... I need you!”

***

John pulled the dusty blue unmarked cruiser signed out to Detective Riley into an empty space on the side of the street across from Professor Whistler’s _has seen better days_ apartment building. The street was fairly deserted – adults or parents still at their day jobs, children in school or at daycare – so no one noticed John crossing the street and stepping up on the small stoop to ring the buzzer to Apartment #3. Of course there was no answer on the intercom, no buzzer sounding as the door unlocked to allow the caller entrance. John looked around the area once more before pulling out his picks to unlock the door and slip inside.

Reese looked up the flight of stairs. His own back twinges in sympathy for what he could only imagine Harold had felt climbing those stairs in his current condition.

John mentally cursed Root or TM, whichever one was responsible for putting Professor Whistler in the apartment unit Harold now called home. Taking the steps two at a time, he was on the third floor and outside the door to #3 in a matter of seconds. John wasn’t even going to bother knocking knowing that Finch would not answer. Reese was just going to let himself in the same way he let himself in downstairs. Adrenalin rushed through his system in surprise, shock, and fear when as he reached for the tarnished brass door knob to pick the lock and the door inched open.

John pushed inside, quickly looking around. His heart, which had been hammering in his chest, slowed its beating slightly as Reese looked around the room and saw nothing amiss; no injured or dying Harold lying on the floor. Only there was still something terribly wrong. John picked up Harold’s coat and suit jacket from where they had landed on the floor and laid them out across the overstuffed chair that previously had the clothing at its feet.

It was obvious when Harold left their subway HQ earlier that he was in some distress, only John had not realized how bad off Finch really was. Reese had helped Finch get through some really bad days, but Harold had always been annoyingly fussy about neatness even during the worst of them. For Finch to just toss his clothes on the floor…

John followed the gasps of heavy breathing interspersed with groans of pain down a short hallway to the single bedroom at the end. There he looked in. Harold had collapsed sideways on the double bed with his shoes still on. One foot was tapping the floor, oddly enough rhythmically, every time he breathed through a wrenching spasm. Reese wanted to do nothing more than to lie down beside his pain racked lover and offer comfort. Only John couldn’t move, staying frozen in place watching Finch breathe heavily and listening to Harold’s cries of torment. Reese’s still rapidly beating heart almost stopped when realization dawned on him. Harold loved him so much he was willing to suffer like this to keep him safe.

Harold’s sobbing outcry of, “John...I need you!” spurred Reese to action. He stripped off his own coat and jacket letting them fall to the floor as he moved towards the bed. As carefully as he could Reese laid down beside Finch while gently pulling the arm away that covered his face. Looking into the pain-filled eyes John choked out, “I’m here Harold... I’m here now.”

Reese let Harold’s left arm go to slide his right hand up brushing over Finch’s shoulder before sliding warm fingers under the nape of Harold's neck, to knead carefully at the tendons covering metal pins there. John used his left to cover Harold’s damaged right hip, letting the heat from his palm sink into the scarred muscle there.

Harold sighed as John began to massage the tautness out of his clenching thigh, the tenseness out his corded neck. Harold tried to focus on Reese’s concerned and caring face, but his eyes drifted closed as John’s hands worked their magic. Finch’s thoughts rambled back to the loft and how Reese’s hands, hands once trained to fight and kill, had become almost an answer to his prayers. Oh how he had missed John’s healing touch, if only....Harold eyes snapped open as he tried to sit up. “Mr. Reese… John… you…you can’t be seen with me. Detective Riley can’t be seen with...with Whistler. Samaritan will connect them...us, and…”

Reese pressed Finch back down onto the mattress and then quieted Harold’s babbling protestations with a desperate kiss. Harold struggled briefly beneath him, stilled for a moment and then returned the kiss with as much or more despair. Not totally breaking the kiss, John pleaded, “Please Harold? Please?”

Harold whimpered then reached between them to push John away, “I can’t let you. Please go. Just go.”

Reese held the hands pushing at his chest by intertwining his fingers with Harold’s. “Finch...Harold, I can’t stand to see you suffering, to see that you need me, and just leave.”

Finch wanted so much for John Reese to stay, but Harold’s fears overrode his needs, “Please, John, please go. If you are seen with me and your identity becomes compromised because of it. If Samaritan...”

“If Samaritan what?” John interrupted. “Your building is off its grid. I wasn’t seen by human eyes coming in. I’ll leave before the sun comes up if I have to. Don’t you see what’s going on? I’m working the numbers, getting sloppy, taking too many risks. Anything I do out there can compromise my identity. Dammit Harold! Right now I would rather be shot than stay away.” John took a deep breath to calm down and clutched Harold’s fingers firmly against his own chest. “Don’t you understand? This separation is hurting us both – physically and emotionally.”

Finch tried once more to protest, to send Reese away. Only another spasm in his back wrenched so painfully that the only sound that left his lips was a cry of pain. John didn’t say another word, just released Harold’s hand long enough to stand up. Reaching down John pulled Harold up to sit. With a much practiced familiarity and routine, John had Harold stripped down to boxers, lying lengthwise on the bed face down nestled in his mound of pillows, within minutes.

Reese stripped down to just his slacks and knelt at first close to Finch’s side after getting on the bed. John worked on the thighs and calves of both of Harold’s legs until the tension and twitching smoothed out beneath his hands.

Next, John swung his leg over, straddling Harold’s thighs, but kept his weight on his own knees. When the daylight streaming through the window darkened with the dusk, Reese flipped on the lamp on the nightstand and continued. John massaged knots upon countless knots in Harold’s back, worked every vertebrae in Harold's spine. Reese pressed, smoothed, and rubbed until his own hands ached. Finch’s groans of pain turned into moans of almost pleasure, a long drawn out sigh, and then silence. Harold had fallen into a pain free sleep.

Reese as gently as he could turned Finch onto his good side, head and neck supported by pillows. John stripped down to his shorts. After turning off the light, John laid down snug against Harold’s back, the heat from his chest warming Harold’s muscles. John kept on rubbing Harold’s bad hip, eventually slowing down and stopping as he too fell asleep.

***

 

Finch woke hours later slightly confused about how he came to be naked except for his boxers and lying on his side. The memory of coming home, barely making it to the bed before collapsing, and the excruciating pain flashed momentarily in his head. Harold started to reach to turn on the bedside lamp when an arm draped around his waist pulled him against the hard expanse of a smooth chest…John? Harold tried to pull the arm away but it resisted, holding Harold even tighter. “Mr. Reese...John!?!”

Reese didn’t stir except to press his nose beneath Finch’s ear and mumble, “It’s okay, Harold. I’ve got you.” Harold relaxed into John's hold. Of course Reese had him. John Reese had never let him down, not with the numbers, not as a friend nor as a lover. Harold reached down to cover John’s hand over his waist with his own, “I know.”

Finch closed his eyes and snugged himself against Reese’s body. He felt the hardness of John’s cock pressing up the crease of his ass. In his sleep, John sensed Harold push against him and then began to rock his hips into the firm roundness. Reese’s humming against Finch’s neck in bliss soon turned to whimpers of need when John began thrusting his erection hard against Harold's lower back.

Even in slumber John desired him. All that strength and power at rest still combined into lust – for him – and Harold reveled in it; amazing that it still was to Finch that someone as virile as John Reese would find someone as old and crippled as him, desirable.

Reese’s rocking against him; the soft cries of need in Finch’s ear along with the joy of being able to touch John and to be touched by him had Harold’s cock filling with blood. With the need to find relief from the pressure building in his groin, Harold thrust desperately back into John. The sudden motion reminded him of when only hours before any movement was agony as a stab of pain shot up his back. Finch couldn’t stifle his cry of pain; Reese woke up in an instant and scrambled to reach over Harold for his gun on the nightstand. John turned on the light instead when he heard Harold’s mild oath hissed through gritted teeth.

Reese moved over while carefully turning Finch onto his back. Once John saw Harold unclench his jaw and open his eyes, he touched Harold’s cheek softly prodding, “What’s hurting you? Tell me.”

Finch tried to turn his face away from Reese’s concerned gaze, but John wouldn’t let him. “Tell me, please?” John asked again.

Finch’s face flushed as he tried to answer. “You were...I felt you hard up against me...I wanted to push back against your erection. However, my muscles reminded me that I am not a young man anymore.”

John looked stunned for a second before he noticed Harold’s hard on. John then looked down at himself tenting his boxers. “Wait...I was poking you with my dick and you were getting horny. When you tried to scoot your butt back you howled in pain?”

Harold pressed his lips together in displeasure, “Essentially, yes.” He turned his face away with a mixture of self-loathing and disbelief, his old insecurities coming to the fore once more. Harold chuffed out, “I just don’t understand why you would want me.”

John threw his head back and began to laugh. Harold was mildly offended and started to roll away. John noticed Harold’s movement and tried to gather his lover in his arms while still chuckling. Harold couldn’t get away very fast so instead he just lay there affronted by John’s laughter.

John tried to stifle his giggles but Harold’s _pissed off_ face just started him laughing again. This went on for a cycle or two until Harold realized the absurdity of it all. Harold cracked a smile. Soon, both men were laughing out loud until it shook the bed.

John cuddled Harold close and wiped the tears from both their eyes. “Aren’t we a pair? Middle age ain’t for sissies!”

Harold nodded in agreement. Finally the laughter died down and John was stroking Harold’s back. The mood and electricity between them turned serious in seconds. John stared into Harold’s face like a dying man looking at salvation. He smiled wistfully, “Why wouldn’t I want you? I am so thankful I have you. I can laugh with you, cry with you, work with you and love with you.”

A lump formed in Harold’s throat but he managed to whisper, “I am grateful too.”

John’s pupils dilated and he leaned down to softly kiss Harold’s thin lips. John mouthed at the crooked bottom lip, playfully pulling at it and bluntly biting. Harold relaxed into the mattress. He loves the freedom of just letting go when they are like this. No other time in Harold’s life had he been able to truly give up control and let the other take over. John had proven time and again that he can and will support Harold in whatever condition or situation they find themselves. Harold tilted his head back a little, exposing his throat so John could nibble at his Adam's apple.

When Harold bared his neck further, John latched on. He couldn’t help but whimper as he sucked greedily at the slightly salty tang of the Harold’s skin. Harold winced slightly as John bit and licked along and above Harold’s collarbone but mewled softly all-the-while, encouraging John to continue making his marks.

John let go long enough to raise up, palm the side of Harold’s face, and assure him between two desperate hungry kisses, “You’re mine Finch...all I’ll ever want or need is you.” When Harold nodded in acquiescence, John kissed back down Harold’s slightly stubbled jaw and the side of his neck to nibble at the pulse point. John scratched his beard along Harold’s jawline. John scraped his teeth down a tendon to the collar bone that sticks out. The muscles from neck to shoulder are popping out, engorged with blood. John knew he needed to be careful but the temptation was too strong. John bit down on the length of sinew with enough force to leave a small bruise. Harold cried out in passion not pain.

John pulled Harold’s back flush against his hard and needy chest. John’s mouth kept finding new tasty morsels to latch onto and suck or bite. Harold’s ass kept jutting back against John’s erection. John started rocking in time to Harold’s jerky thrusts. The hand not holding Harold tightly to him moved along hairy pectoral muscles, tweaked a nipple before continuing downward, grazed a bellybutton to slither under the waistband of Harold’s shorts. John found Harold hard and leaking. John gripped him tight and squeezed just as his canines sunk into Harold's neck like a vampire. John imagined he could even feel the metal hit his teeth. Instead of resisting or pulling away, Harold’s cock lurched at the pain. The precum spurted thickly onto John’s knuckles. Harold liked the assault to his neck.

Pain and pleasure had to use the same nerve endings to send signals to the brain. Harold’s neck had been sending pain for so long that any pleasure signals were amplified just by the contrast. Harold was so into it, keening loudly, gasping little breathy moans, pushing his neck further into John’s mouth. It was hot and it was going to be over too quickly.

John’s cock was happily surrounded by the warm curves of Harold’s ass, sliding up and down the crack. Silky fabric smoothed and caressed John’s hardness. It was heavenly.

John returned the favor, cranking Harold’s cock and twisting it like a stubborn faucet, John massaged the head back and forth. Every so often Harold’s own hips would jerk up pushing the vise formed by John’s hand down to the base to mingle with graying curls. Then John’s hand would spiral up the column of blood hot arousal to gather what leaked out and start the whole process over again.

Each cycle grew faster, shorter, their breathing became labored, John’s nostrils flared and his hot breathe rustled Harold’s sideburns. John’s mouth was too busy with other things to worry about breathing. He was becoming light headed. Blood pooled in his groin, all his senses were overcome by Harold’s scent, his taste, his feel, his whimpers. The final straw was when John opened his eyes to watch his fist strip down Harold’s cock. When John reached the bottom, Harold grew strained and his back arched. John’s fingers and palm felt the eruption before he saw the geyser of white jettison from the purple head of Harold’s cock. It was too much; John’s balls leapt up, trying to crawl inside his body and his own cock spasmed. His ejaculate coated his shorts and popped his dick against Harold’s rump like a drum stick keeping time to each wave of bliss.

When John could feel anything other than Harold, when John’s body transmitted more than just pleasure, gratification, and joy- only then did John realize he was still clenching his teeth into the tender skin at the juncture of Harold’s neck to his shoulder.

When John pried his jaw apart, tiny specks of blood revealed that he had broken the skin. Oddly, Harold wasn’t upset. Instead, John realized that Harold’s cock was still trying futilely to shoot off with every spike of pain flaring from the wound. John would need to remember that particular erogenous zone for the future.

Still, John felt like a brute, a bully overpowering Harold and taking what he wanted. “I’m sorry.” he said against the shell of Harold’s ear, real regret in his quavering voice. Harold began to shake. John feared Harold was going to cry. Instead, Harold was laughing and trying to speak. “John, please don’t take this the wrong way but your martyr complex needs to stay out of the bedroom. I like it when you take charge, take what you want. It turns me on to have you lose your control. You only lose yourself when you are with me. It makes me happy that I can give that to you. Also, I do feel a tad bit smug that I am the only one can that make you forget yourself.”

John hugged Harold close to him, as he laughed along agreeably, “That you do Harold Finch…that you do.” Their laughter quieted as they just lay there, together, basking in the afterglow of mutually gratifying sex. John felt himself getting drowsy, but there was no time to sleep. He had made a promise to leave before daylight and sun-up was in an hour. John also needed to clean himself up. He kissed Harold on the shoulder and excused himself to use the restroom. Harold murmured a drowsy, “Okay.”

John emptied his bladder before removing his soiled shorts and washing dried semen from his chest and hand. He warmed a cloth for Harold to clean himself up also, only when John went back over to the bed Harold was sound asleep. Harold barely stirred as John devotedly stripped Harold of his ejaculate splattered boxers and washed his lover’s body. When done John made sure Harold’s fragile neck was supported then covered him with the sheet and a warm coverlet.

John gathered his clothes, taking them back into the bathroom to dress. He stuffed his underwear into a side pocket of his suit jacket and then finger combed his hair. He could fix himself up better at Riley’s apartment. John stopped by Harold’s bed, brushed his hand through Harold’s still spiky, soft brown hair as he bent to kiss Harold’s forehead.  “Sleep well, Finch,” John said quietly as he slipped out the door. No one saw the tall figure walk away from the apartment building, get in the nondescript sedan, and drive away.

***

_Finch walked from the back room, over to the familiar cracked glass board and taped on it an 8x10 picture – paper still warm from the photo-printer – of their newest number. He turned to frown at Reese who once again had commandeered Harold’s work station to clean one of his numerous weapons, a sniper rifle Ms. Shaw had drooled over like it was a piece of porterhouse steak._

_Harold didn’t mind, not really, because he loved John and everything about him. That included Reese’s passion for firearms, but there were certain proprieties that needed to be met. Cleaning paraphernalia and gun oil did not belong near monitors, keyboards, and varied computer hardware._

_Finch’s long suffering sigh of, “Mr. Reese...” prompted John to pause in his task and look up smiling innocently. The lecture died on Harold’s lips, lips that turned up slightly at the corners in fond exasperation. “....what am I going to do with you?”_

_John placed the part he had been polishing on the table and rose from Finch’s computer chair to walk over to where Harold stood. Reese’s breath fanned Harold’s forehead as John bent his head down to answer the question in his low rasping voice, “Anything you want, Mr. Finch.”_

_Harold reached up to cup the sides of the taller man’s face, thumbs gently tracing the edges of the prominent cheekbones. “Anything?” he asked huskily before pulling John’s face down to meet his, their mouths almost touching….._

_~~_

Harold jerked awake – John’s image evaporated as a puff of smoke – mentally cursing the insistent and continual chiming of the alarm on his cell phone. Flinging his arm towards the damnable object, Finch grabbed it up, killed the alert tone before tossing the phone back on the nightstand.

It was only a dream – The Library; the love the two of them often shared physically in the old building was no longer to be – oh, but to be with John again even if only in sleep’s illusion.

Finch laid his head back down for a moment wishing he could go back to sleep, return to the dream, before throwing the covers off in frustration. Harold took a deep breath steeling himself to get out of bed one more time when all he wanted to do was close his eyes and drift away into the past. Finch could feel the ever present grip of despair squeezing his heart knowing he had to get through another day of the grim reality that nothing would ever be the same. He and John could not be together now, maybe never again.

Harold reached for his glasses, putting them on only to see the clothes – every stitch – that he'd worn the day previous scattered about the floor or tossed onto the old armchair in front of the bedroom window. How had he not noticed before? Finch glanced down at himself; he was as naked as the day he was born.

John...? Harold turned onto his other side to slide his hand across the section of sheet covering the empty side of the double bed. Harold imagined he could still feel under his palm the warmth of Reese’s body still trapped in the cotton. Shifting his face closer to the pillow John had slept on, Harold inhaled the citrusy-spice scent of his lover’s cologne.

The painful band around Finch’s heart loosened and let go as the memories from last night washed over him as a soothing balm. John had once again breached the walls of paranoia Harold had built around himself. He gave Finch the love, comfort, and security that his life had been severely lacking these past months.

Harold smiled. John had kept his promise to leave before the morning light. No one would know Detective John Riley had spent the night with Professor Whistler. If secret rendezvous in the middle of the night were the only way they could be together alleviating Harold’s fears then Reese would comply just as long as they were together.

The alarm sounded once again, reminding Harold that he really needed to get up. His scheduled three hours at the college began at 9 am. Whistler had a class to lecture and a certain detective to invite to lunch.

Finch swung his legs over the side of the bed. There was no tautness or twinges of protest from his back or legs only a sweet ache around the outside of his buttocks, hips, and upper arms since those muscles had been left too long unused. Harold felt the flush in his face thinking about how he had returned John’s fervor two-fold. He felt...good; actually Finch couldn’t remember feeling this way since… Harold squashed the memories of that night and the crushing months after. That weight had been lifted.

Harold Finch had read somewhere that the chemicals produced in lovemaking could do much to improve mental health. Maybe that was true. Harold was more inclined to believe that just being with the man he loved, especially with the intensity and unbridled passion both he and John felt last night, did more to repair his state of mind than just the release of endorphins. Without a thought to his modesty, Harold went around the room wearing nothing but a smile gathering his strewn clothing for the hamper or the dry-cleaning bag.

Next Finch picked out his outfit for the day, the tie was one of Harold’s favorites. Its blue matched the color of John’s eyes. Finch shook his head at his own folly but was in too good a mood to really chastise himself. Once the room and his wardrobe were set to rights, Harold went to the bathroom. He set up his electric razor, making sure it was charged for his shave after his shower. He looked up into the mirror’s reflection and froze.

Finch’s neck was ringed with marks, dark red and purpling. Without glasses Harold leaned forward for a closer inspection and once again he felt the heat rush across his face as he blushed furiously; his entire collarbone was marked with love bites. John had been careful; most of the marks were low enough to be hidden below the collar of Harold’s shirts. All of them except for two rather livid bites on the side of Harold’s neck, clearly the outlines of someone’s teeth. There was nothing to be said that could convince anyone that the red and purple markings were anything other than what they were. Harold’s neck was covered with hickeys.

Mr. Reese had been especially amorous the night before ― the fast caused by their separation broken ― John’s want to appease his hunger had turned into a desire to consume Harold right then and there. The thought that they needed to be careful and that Harold should caution John flitted briefly through his mind again before he too was caught up, thrilled by John’s enthusiasm and want.

Harold straightened up, shaking his head slightly; there was nothing to be done about it now. There really was no more time to dwell. Harold had to hurry getting showered and shaved.

Finishing with his dressing, Harold decided to forgo the previously chosen tie; the slightest touch of his undershirt against his neck irritated the bruising. What would the snugness of a buttoned shirt and a tightly knotted tie feel like?

Except for the few times when Finch had dressed the part to help with a number, Harold always went out in public dressed in suit and tie. Finch pulled on the dark blue sport blazer he'd found hanging in the back of his closet, adjusted the collar of his shirt, its top buttons left undone, and checked out his image in the mirror. Harold adjusted his collar again and to his surprise, most of the love bites were hidden. Only the two obvious ones could be seen if one looked close enough. Harold didn’t feel shame. Stuffy old Professor Whistler walked out his door literally sticking his neck out to get someone to notice.

The subway was packed with seasoned New Yorkers, so of course, they never even batted an eye at him. The executive administrator at the school was too busy to even lift her head as Harold checked his faculty mailbox for the Humanities Department and Computer Sciences as he was technically in both. The twinge of disappointment Harold felt spurred him to quit being silly. No one noticed him and that was a good thing for his cover.

Professor Whistler’s personae allowed Finch to live in the shadows, unremarkable and unnoticed, but a few hickeys made him an extrovert. Harold’s paranoia about being seen with John had been alleviated last night. In fact, now all he wanted was to be seen with John. Yet, they still needed to be cautious ― flaunting their sexual liaison was recklessly drawing attention to themselves, but still Harold Whistler’s bruised ego needed validation and acknowledgement.

He shook his head and proceeded to gather his notes to prepare for the morning lecture. The students had a rough draft due on their term papers. A busy class would be followed by wailing children trying to manipulate their professor about due dates and what constitutes proper sources. Professor Whistler, annoyed with the expected whining and complaining he met upon entering the room, dismissed his planned lecture for a one-on-one with each student to assuage their grievances.

Karen Anderson was the last to sit down with the Professor. Although Karen was one of the in-crowd Harold had observed since arriving on campus yet the young woman took her studies seriously and had some legitimate problems with her term paper. With one particular issue Karen was listening intently to her Professor’s suggestions and lifted her eyes up from the paper.

The next question she began to ask halted mid-sentence, her eyes widened fractionally as she obviously noticed the marks on Professor Whistler’s neck. Karen blinked hard, cleared her throat, apologizing, before continuing in stride with her question. When her time was up she returned to her seat. She whispered something to her friend before they both left their chairs to walk out the door moments later, the hour being over.

Harold gathered his notes and then placed everything in his briefcase; the lecture could wait until the following session. Harold checked his phone; there was a message from Detective Riley agreeing to meet him at their usual place.

Finch walked out of the building headed for the subway. He passed a group of students talking among themselves, Karen one of them. The conversation stopped as they looked Whistler’s way. One of the campus jocks and Karen’s boyfriend smiled at Harold and gave the professor a thumb’s up. Harold walked away grinning madly to himself

 ***

Harold was thirty minutes early for their lunch appointment; he spent that time thinking and rethinking his decision. It was the right thing to do. Harold had reassessed his paranoia that Professor Whistler and Detective Riley openly appearing as anything more than casual acquaintances would result in dire circumstances. In all possibilities it was highly unlikely that Samaritan’s search for deviant behavior included paramours. Clandestine meetings, trying to keep their true relationship hidden, or his outright avoidance of John resulting in Detective Riley’s recklessness was bound to draw the AI’s attention more than two men in an obvious romantic relationship.

When Detective Riley joined him, Professor Whistler smiled at him as he sat down, love and devotion clearly written on the older man’s face. John returned the look twofold, “So you made your decision?”

Harold reached across the table to clasp John’s hands in his own. “Of course. I find I rather like having Professor Whistler’s personal life entwined officially with Detective Riley’s.”

The rest of the hour they spent enjoying their lunch, talking, laughing and flirting so there was no doubt to any eyes looking on, be they human or non, the two men were together.

_Finis_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this far.  
> I hope this kick starts my writing motor.  
> Rinch will live on in fan fic and I want to write my part


End file.
